#and just that tentative little moment of hnd hlding
Jaskier is easily distracted. He‘ll happily admit that about himself. Sometimes a shape or a scent or a colour will catch his eye and he’ll be compelled to go after it, to investigate, to see what new beauties might be found just around the corner. For what is the life of a poet but to give oneself over to each new wonder as it unfurls?
Which is fine usually, but does cause occasional problems in big cities. He’ll be with Geralt, heading for the nearest notice board to look for contracts, and his attention will be drawn be a flash of beautiful fabric or the smell of fresh honey cakes. And he’ll feel an almost overwhelming urge to drop everything and pursue the fascinating new stimuli, to see what delights might await…
And then Geralt’s hand will close around his elbow, or clap on his shoulder, and guide him back in the right direction.
He’d been offended at first, imagining Geralt was being overbearing and pushy, like whatever he needed to do was more important than following Jaskier’s whims. But after a while he realised it wasn’t that. Geralt got anxious when there were a lot of people around and Jaskier wasn’t next to him. He liked to know where he was at all times. It was almost sweet, honestly.
So now Jaskier tolerates Geralt’s pawing with good humour. When they walk over the bridge to Oxenfurt, he’s used to Geralt grabbing his arm to keep him in line and marching determinedly through the throngs of people. And when they enter the gates of Novigrad, he recognises the way Geralt’s shoulders tense in the packed crowds, and he stays close by so Geralt can take a hold of his wrist and guide him to where they need to go.
They’re in Hagge and the press of people around them is oppressive even to Jaskier, a crowd having gathered in anticipation of a local festival that evening. He trots as briskly as he can, trying to keep Geralt in sight as they maneuver through the mass of bodies and toward the main square. And he’s doing his best, he really is, but then there’s a shout and a peal of laughter to his left, and he simply must know what’s going on over there…
Geralt’s hand shoots back and grabs him around the wrist, puling him forward, and yeah, okay, that‘s probably for the best.
And then they make it through the crowd and onto a quieter street and Geralt’s fingers wiggle, almost uncertainly, and let go of his wrist before reaching down to clasp his hand instead. Their fingers intertwine, and Jaskier looks down to see hefty leather glove slipping between his own slim digits and oh, that’s good. That feels nice.
He looks up, a tease forming on his lips. But it dies when he catches sight of Geralt. Whoever said witchers can’t blush must have been misinformed, because even though he’s staring straight ahead and resolutely not looking back, there’s the most adorable flush of pink spreading over Geralt’s cheeks.
Jaskier gives his hand a little squeeze instead, and the blush deepens.
That’s nice. He could get used to this.
